


i received your message in full (a few days ago)

by orderlyhouse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Kisses, Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Blanket Permission, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Freckles, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Miracles, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlyhouse/pseuds/orderlyhouse
Summary: Thinking that Crowley didn’t have to, and wouldn’t know it if anyone’s treated his plants to some loving, Aziraphale lifted one of the leaves with his finger to his lips.After the failed Apocalypse Crowley's plants become slightly more sentient, so he can't bully them anymore without feeling as bad as they do afterwards.Aziraphale shows up to an empty flat and thinks that he'd love to see the potted orchid in bloom.Neither of them know about the myth of angel kisses.(OR: Crowley suddenly has freckles, but doesn't know why.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 178





	i received your message in full (a few days ago)

**Author's Note:**

> Title: [New Order - Age Of Consent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ahU-x-4Gxw)

For someone who’s lived for 6000 years, Aziraphale had to admit that he and Crowley weren’t that clever sometimes.

It all started with Aziraphale’s proposition to see the latest kimono exhibition at V&A, since his last encounter with a real one occurred around 100 years ago, and Crowley agreeing to it.

It all almost ended when Aziraphale showed up at Crowley’s empty flat, while Crowley didn’t find the angel in the bookshop.

At the point where Crowley rang his own landline and started to call for Aziraphale as soon as he was connected to the voicemail, the angel had to admit that out of the two he probably wasn’t the smartest one since he’d never come up with something like that. Not that he’d ever admit it if confronted, of course.

Still, both of them missed the part where Aziraphale gets picked up at the bookshop (in Crowley’s perspective), or where Crowley waits for him in the flat (Aziraphale’s judging), so when Crowley told him to wait and not leave the apartment and finally, _finally_ pick up the book Aziraphale brought over two months ago when he last came over to Crowley’s place because he needed something to read on the subway for two stops, the angel agreed.

Besides, it wasn’t that often that Aziraphale was here, so he could take an opportunity to take a better look around.

Crowley’s place still didn’t look well lived-in. Aziraphale thought back to all the times Crowley had left his shop late at night, probably much later than human customs would allow, and how he seemed almost reluctant to go.

There was, it seemed, a little progress made. The leather sofa had a big chunky knit blanket standing out with its stark white colour against the blacks and greys of the living room that Crowley must have pushed to the side without bothering to fold it away. Aziraphale tried not to dwell on the mental image of how long and why Crowley (and how much would he not like that even thought about him) cuddled with it, and promised to think about an appropriate gift and how to inadvertently give it to Crowley later.

There were other things too. Some thick books on art, and history, and space that probably had more pictures in them than text surrounded the one Aziraphale forgot there the last time. A large fur-like white rug. A tapestry armchair in golden and black. Definitely more plants everywhere.

The one in the living room, however, was there the last time as well.

Aziraphale knew what purpose they served beside decorating the place. Crowley never told him, nor did Aziraphale ask him, but overhearing Crowley scold them under his breath with the feeling of terror filling the room over a year ago was enough to make an understanding.

Right now, though, their stress levels seemed much lower, and Aziraphale truly hoped that it wasn’t only because Crowley was away. They still looked good, but apparently, this wasn’t enough since out of the many plants that were there none had flowers, and if Aziraphale wasn’t wrong (he wasn’t) about what he was looking at, he’d really, _really_ like to see that orchid in bloom.

Thinking that Crowley didn’t have to, and _wouldn’t_ know it if anyone’s treated his plants to some loving, Aziraphale lifted one of the leaves with his finger to his lips.

It must have been some sort of a miracle that Crowley wasn’t driving.

Well, not really a miracle, just a road light turned red and Crowley not wanting to cause a grievous scene on the road since that wasn’t his style.

He was about 15 minutes away from his flat, 10 if the roads are clear, and he couldn’t help it but let his thoughts wander to thinking about seeing Aziraphale soon, which is something he allowed himself to do more recently. It wasn’t that he was unhappy about their current situation: Aziraphale was still his friend, just like he was during the previous millennia, if only in the open now, but Crowley liked to entertain the idea of not being the one to make the first move. Aziraphale has always been braver out of two of them despite what he believed in about himself, especially when it came to talking, and if before the failed Apocalypse Crowley had thought that he could misread some signs or it wasn’t possible because Heaven was breathing down the angel’s neck, now he was certain that almost all could—

Crowley took a shuddering breath, feeling his heart starting to hammer, and clutched at his chest.

A second later, when his heartbeat started to fall into its normal pace and he had to lean onto his hands holding the steering wheel to even out his heavy breathing as well, he felt his face growing warm. The strangest thing, though, was the fact that his thoughts rapidly shifted from the shock at his sudden state to Aziraphale, and the warmth in his chest was actually pleasant. Almost soft.

The traffic light must have turned green some time ago, so when the car behind signalled for him to move, Crowley clutched the wheel and floored it.

The fact that he didn’t crash on the rest of the way to his flat was, in fact, a miracle.

Aziraphale was waiting for him in the flat, just as they agreed. At least something went right.

Crowley didn’t really feel like going anywhere right now. The thing he wanted to do the most was to sit down and catch his breath, as the aftermath of whatever it was that happened to him in the car still loomed at the back of his mind, but if he mentioned it to Aziraphale the angel wouldn’t leave it alone until two days later, so he decided to stick to the original plan.

“You’ve got the book?” He asked. “Let’s go.”

He almost turned to exit the flat but noticed how very intently Aziraphale was looking at his face, with a small smile on his own.

“What?” Crowley asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale smiled wider, but shyly, and averted his eyes, “I’m sorry, I just think that new thing really suits you.”

Crowley frowned. “What new thing?”

Aziraphale was looking at him again, his smile getting mixed with confusion. “You know, on your face.”

Crowley just stared at him for a moment before heading to the bathroom for the closest mirror he could think of.

Despite his annoyance growing with each step he took, along with the anticipation of telling Aziraphale that he _really_ needed to sleep at least from time to time, Crowley didn’t expect him to be right.

His face, looking back at him from the mirror, was covered in freckles.

Never during his long life and the existence of glasses had Crowley taken them off as fast as he did at that moment. He was able to see in the dark, but to say that he didn’t hope desperately that his sunglasses were cursed and were playing a trick on him during a second it took him to pull them off and toss to the side would be a lie.

His hopes were crushed when he discovered more marked skin the sunglasses have been hiding, gaping as his gaze glided over the high of his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose.

“What the fuck,” he breathed out, apparently audible enough for Aziraphale to hear him.

“Crowley?” The angel came to the bathroom.

“I didn’t fucking do this!” Crowley raised his voice, hoping that Aziraphale didn’t take it personally a second later. “I don’t know what that is!”

“Crowley, calm down,” he stepped closer, and Crowley turned to look at him. “Let me see. Does it hurt?” Aziraphale asked, and before Crowley could touch his own face the angel landed his fingertips on his cheekbone.

Crowley just stared at him while Aziraphale’s sight and touch explored the freckles on his skin, and when he finally met Crowley’s eyes the demon had to look away. Surely, Aziraphale didn’t mean it _this way_ , so Crowley slowly guided his head away from under his fingertips not to make his disappointment about the wrong circumstances for this kind of contact too obvious.

“No,” he blurted out and turned back to the mirror.

“It’s perfectly natural, you know,” Aziraphale was looking at his reflection in the mirror as well, “It’s just a reaction to the Sun, and it’s spring.”

“Yes, but not for me!” Crowley almost managed to calm his agitated voice. “I’m not mortal! I don’t even feel mortal!”

To clarify his point, he poignantly looked at the door behind Aziraphale until it closed with a soft click. “See? Besides, it wasn’t there 20 minutes ago. I don’t think it works like that.”

“Well, what were you doing at that time?” Aziraphale was looking at him in the mirror again, and Crowley was looking back at him.

“Driving here,” he remembered the episode on the way back home. “I think something happened.”

Aziraphale was suddenly looking worried. “What did?”

“Dunno,” Crowley lowered his gaze. He just couldn’t tell Aziraphale he was thinking about him (as he often did, and none of the occasions before resulted in a skin reaction) and suddenly felt what the definition of being _in love_ would feel like in a physical form experienced all at once in just under five seconds, or even better – how it would feel like if Aziraphale told him he loved him back. “I just think it was a heart attack or something.”

“A heart attack?” Aziraphale’s voice pitched. “That’s absurd.”

“Well, whatever that was this seems to be an allergic reaction to it or something,” Crowley hurried to change the subject and leave no room for Aziraphale to object.

Aziraphale blinked at him before saying, “Well, if you’re sure,” faltering afterwards and then asking, “Do you think you’re ready to go, then? I’ve got the book.”

Crowley reached for his sunglasses (unscratched, _obviously_ ) and put them on the usual way, but they weren’t covering even the half of the mess he now had on his face. He grunted and adjusted them this way and that way, but only ended up with his eyes revealed.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley sighed and tried not to look at Aziraphale because he couldn’t stand to disappoint him, “I’m not going.”

He could feel Aziraphale tensing up beside him, but not in a defensive way. “You look quite good with them,” the angel said almost softly, and maybe Crowley would want to hear it some other time, but not like this and not right now and certainly not on the matter of.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I really don’t feel like it.”

The silence that followed was awkward. Aziraphale fiddled with his fingers while Crowley waited for him to announce his leave.

“Well,” the angel finally broke the silence, “at least drive me to the pharmacy, please. There are none nearby.”

Crowley snapped his head. “Why?”

“If it is an allergy, we could treat it, and then maybe we can go to the exhibition.”

Crowley gave him an inquiring look. “And what if we can’t?”

“Then we won’t go,” Aziraphale answered as if he didn’t really care about the exhibition.

“But what about the exhibition?”

“Well,” he shrugged, “it’s not as if I’ve never seen a kimono first-hand before.”

Aziraphale forgot the damn book anyway.

It took them five minutes of slowly driving down the street looking for a shop before Crowley lost his nerve and just drove to the closest drugstore he could think of, saying that there was no way he was getting out of the car looking like that, so Aziraphale promised to come back in ten minutes.

He came back in twenty with a small bag full of medicine, and passed Crowley a bottle of water.

“Right, let’s get it over with,” Crowley rummaged the bag for the most serious-looking package of antihistamine pills, but his attempt at opening it was interrupted by Aziraphale:

“Oh, no, Crowley, you can’t have these before driving.”

“What?” Crowley whipped to look at him. “Which one can I have then?”

Aziraphale lowered his eyes. “None of them, I’m afraid.”

“Great,” Crowley grunted with a sigh.

“You can have them later,” Aziraphale took the bag off him and fished for a small box. “I’ve bought you some oil that is supposed to help with skin conditions, do you want to try?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said almost inaudibly and proceeded to take the bottle out of the box.

“Do you need some help?” Aziraphale asked him a minute later watching Crowley trying to see himself in the rear-view mirror.

“I’m fine,” Crowley muttered and sighed heavily after realising that he can barely see a fraction of the marked skin area, and put the bottle on the dashboard in front of him, sagging in his seat. “This isn’t working.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Aziraphale said, taking the bottle and meeting Crowley’s gaze when it followed his hand. Crowley didn’t even realise he was still wearing sunglasses until Aziraphale’s other hand was raised to the side of his head. “May I?”

Crowley nodded, letting Aziraphale take his sunglasses off and leave them on the dashboard, leaving Crowley wondering since when Aziraphale became so forward, and then Aziraphale was looking at him again with no reciprocation.

“Is it itchy? Must be if it’s an allergy,” Aziraphale asked as he was dabbing the oil into Crowley’s skin with a silk handkerchief he produced from his breast pocket. Crowley was still not looking at him and didn’t plan to until the whole ordeal was over.

“No,” he rumbled. Aziraphale finally finished and was now dabbing the excess of the ointment with the clean side of his handkerchief.

“All done,” he chirped and retreated to fold the clean piece fabric away. “Are you feeling any different?”

In the rear-view mirror, his skin was slightly shiny, but that was all different about it. “No,” Crowley managed to say once again since other words seemed to leave his mind completely, putting the sunglasses back on and deflating.

“I’m very sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly after a long moment into the quiet of Bentley.

The angel was still watching him, even after some more silence, and Crowley couldn’t bear it. His day was already crumpled like a piece of paper in the hands of somebody who’s had a really bad day, but Aziraphale didn’t deserve this. Some minor and inconvenient appearance change wasn’t something that he couldn’t overcome, and besides, the only other option he had right now was to go home and sulk with a re-run of “The Golden Girls” in the background that he will not enjoy one bit until the day was over, and who knows how many days like that would follow.

“Right,” Crowley sat up straight, “Let’s go to the exhibition.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “Are you sure?” He finally let out in concern.

“It’s darkish there anyway,” Crowley mumbled and gripped the lever, noting in his peripheral vision how Aziraphale beamed at him.

He didn’t sulk during the exhibition, nor after when he dropped Aziraphale off at the bookshop, and he didn’t really get a chance to sulk once he took one of the pills Aziraphale got him that evening and immediately fell asleep on the bed covers, unaccustomed to sleep-inducing medication.

He did consider sulking for the whole day when the next morning he saw that nothing has changed; so he could take another pill and (try to) do that, or he could take a shortcut.

Thank Someone Anathema had her visa extended.

“Let me get this straight: you need my help because you’ve got freckles?” Anathema inquired. Crowley had considered just showing up on her doorstep, but now silently thanked the version of himself from three hours ago for ringing her first. Things weren’t looking good. “Sorry, I’m not a dermatologist.”

“Don’t call it that!” Crowley snapped with a huff. “It’s not that, it’s— Something’s happened. I don’t know what, but they just appeared, you gotta fix this.” Anathema gave him a pending look. “Please.”

“Fine,” she responded primly and went into the cottage, leaving the door open for Crowley to follow her and gesturing for him to sit down.

“ _Something_ happened, eh?” She grinned at him when she came back and placed a box full of cards and crystals and other witchcraft props on the table. “ _Something_ by the name of Aziraphale?”

Crowley looked at her, feeling and sounding incredibly tired. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Anathema attempted to swat him on the arm he had on the table, but decided against it in the middle. “Like I don’t know how that,” she twirled a finger close to her face while busying with the box contents, “happened. He was so happy you finally let it out he just unleashed himself onto you, but I’m warning you, I’m only going to deal with your face.”

Crowley shook his head in disbelief. This wasn’t the time for salacious jokes, especially since it didn’t concern only him, and after all, he never thought her so insensitive. “What the hell are you talking about?” He asked, genuinely irritated.

Anathema looked at him, clearly surprised and not smiling anymore. “You know,” she tried to keep her tone light-hearted, “angel kisses. That’s what freckles are. I never knew it to be true, obviously, but now I guess that is.”

“That’s— “ Crowley stammered, and then struggled to find his words. “That’s ridiculous. And we haven’t.”

Anathema looked up at him from the box once more. “You mean neither of you still haven’t even said anything?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“And it’s none of your business,” Crowley said lowly, looking at the wooden floor now.

“Of course. I’m sorry,” she said softly and sounded like she truly was.

The uncomfortable silence they fell into was only interrupted by Anathema’s hesitant and further rummaging through the box.

“There are more,” Crowley was staring at the floor again, “On my shoulders and back and arms. Not so severe like on the face but...”

“Of course,” Anathema repeated and pulled out a chair for herself. Crowley finally looked at her when she brought up a crystal hanging off the chain near his face. She waited, but it didn’t move, so she slowly brought her hand clutching the chain to the other side of his face, and then lowered it to the closest should, and then the other.

“Um,” she retracted her hand, “it doesn’t move, which is good, I suppose, since that means there’s no supernatural influence on you, but I can’t be sure with… you. I just hope you didn’t break it.”

“Yeah, you broke it on my evil demonic nature. Sure,” he scoffed. This was exhausting. She was probably his last chance, and it seemed like she failed as well.

“Hey, don’t take this out on me!” She jokingly chastised him. “Not my fault you didn’t use sunscreen.”

Crowley was in no mood to be snarky, so he said nothing.

“Look,” Anathema said cautiously, “what _did_ happen?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he brushed her off. He didn’t have enough willpower to talk about it.

“Yes, it does,” she pressed. “Are you actually going to blow your chance at getting rid of this by not telling me?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and groaned. Sometimes Anathema really reminded him of himself, but he was hoping he wasn’t that pesky to Aziraphale.

Technically, telling her about the thing (and that thing _only_ ) with his increased heartbeat wasn’t a lie. Just a withholding.

Anathema was looking at him with a confused frown, and he almost thought that she could tell that he’s lying – _withholding_ – but she only asked, “You have a heart?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he scowled.

“Oh, no, no, nothing,” she shifted on her seat as if she wanted to back away, “I just didn’t think immortals had any of that, that’s why they are… immortal.”

“Yes, of course I have a heart,” he snipped, “I just don’t necessarily need it, just as breathing.”

“Okay,” Anathema stretched, “so, what does this have to do with your skin?”

Crowley stared at her blankly.

“I don’t know,” he said in a tone alike, making sure Anathema got his point, “you’re the one who asked me to tell you what happened before all of this appeared.”

“Right,” she was obviously feeling awkward by now, and Crowley actually felt bad. Just a bit. “I don’t know what all of that means, though. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Crowley mumbled, not looking at her. They stayed silent for a short while until Crowley stood up to leave and Anathema followed him out of the cottage.

“I’ll look into it,” she told him when they reached the Bentley, “I promise.”

“Thanks,” he said distractedly. “I shouldn’t have,” he gestured towards the cottage, “back there.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Crowley hesitated for a moment but decided that it was worth a shot anyway. “Where did you get that angel stuff from?”

If Anathema was surprised (and she was), she covered it really well. “Just some folklore belief, I guess,” she shrugged. “It’s practically ancient. Did you really not know?”

“No,” Crowley opened the driver’s seat door.

“Just,” Anathema said hurriedly before he had a chance to climb in, “don’t stress. You’ll figure this out. They look good, if anything,” she gave him a small soft smile.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Crowley muttered, feeling extremely bashful, and closed the door once he was in the car. “Bye.”

The drive back home was emotionally uneasy.

Technically, there should have been another shortcut.

Despite what one might have thought, in 6000 years Crowley rarely suffered an injury, because he wanted it to be that way, and only did when he forgot what he wanted. Discorporations due to his own questionable choices were another matter, but small lacerations were healed soon enough not to scar.

The current state of his skin could have counted as such, right?

Crowley lost his jacket and sunglasses not long after coming home from his drive to Anathema’s and was now staring at himself in the same bathroom mirror that revealed his new look a day ago.

The _marks_ , since freckles couldn’t do it for a demon, thank you very much, didn’t seem to get any worse, but no better either. It was still safer to start from the areas that couldn’t be seen, in case if anything goes wrong – a thought he scolded himself for immediately because he couldn’t let this flop.

Crowley pushed the neck of his t-shirt to the side until one of his shoulders was bare.

“Right, here goes,” he said out loud to ground himself, and put a palm on his shoulder, closing his eyes and trying to hold an image of his skin there as intact as he saw it last time before the incident.

He felt soft warmth rise to the area until an uncomfortable heavy feeling did the same around his eyes. He told himself to ignore it, but a moment later Crowley bit his wobbling lip, and another moment later he had to open his eyes to let the stinging tears fall.

The heavy feeling now spread to his chest, and Crowley took his hand away, feeling his unnecessary lungs being constricted, and proceeded to wipe the tears away. He hadn’t cried since the day he couldn’t find Aziraphale in the burning bookshop and was now staring in the mirror at his exposed shoulder in confused sadness.

These were clearly not tears caused by physical pain, because there was no source of it: his shoulder was still full of marks, missing one or two of the smallest kind, but for some reason, he felt very hurt and very alone.

He pulled the t-shirt back in its place.

Laser removal was not an option either then.

Crowley slouched through his flat and plopped down the leather sofa in his living room. A potted orchid below the window was radiating suspicion.

“What are you looking at?” Crowley snarled at it, and the general energy in the room changed to minding one’s own business.

Crowley regarded the plant for one more moment. It seemed as if it bloomed especially suddenly in the last few days, but he wasn’t sure when or why considering that it didn’t do so for months.

Truth be told, maybe it happened because he went all soft on them, at least compared to his previous treatment. The strangest thing he discovered after the Apocalypse had failed was that he felt awful after each of his bouts at his plants. He was fairly sure by now that it must have been Adam’s doing, but it didn’t bother him much. At least not much enough to admit that he’s been bullying his plants and feeling what they must’ve been feeling afterwards to a 13-year-old.

Crowley tsk’ed and thought about what he should be doing for the rest of the day. Sulking could still be on a program, or it could be replaced with something better if he rummaged through his wine cabinet and would have enough audacity to show up at the bookshop unannounced with whatever it was he’d find.

That sounded like a plan, or at least Crowley thought it did as he sat up and smiled without meaning to.

The plan turned out to be one for the whole week. And then for another after that. And another.

Aziraphale felt very sorry for him that evening, of course, and as awkward about it as Crowley felt (but didn’t show, just pretended to be busy with the bottle and the glasses while avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze until the topic was dropped) he just couldn’t tell the angel about Anathema’s _assumptions_. Not that they were true, anyway.

Aziraphale fussed around him some more, saying that they could go out or do whatever Crowley wanted to and obviously feeling bad when it wasn’t his fault in the slightest, but Crowley came to the bookshop and not anywhere else for a reason.

It wasn’t as if they didn’t go out at all. It was hard at first, but soon Crowley discovered that people still didn’t care and Aziraphale didn’t give him as much as an apologetic glance. 

At one point, Crowley caught himself remembering the incident only at nights, when he would come home after spending another full day with Aziraphale – so he wouldn’t spend it sulking instead, of course – and catch a glimpse of his reflection in one of the mirrors.

“Did I tell you, three weeks ago,” he said one evening amidst one of the pauses they usually had between discussing the global situation and the latest gossip on their respective sides (although lately, due to the reasons of being _very_ unwelcome in the head offices, they were running rather low on these), “that bloody orchid finally bloomed. Hadn’t in almost a year!”

Maybe it was the whiskey starting to kick in, but Aziraphale seemed to stop breathing and looked like he was trying to sit up unnoticed. “Had it?” He asked with an unsure smile.

“Yeah,” Crowley attempted to shrug, but it came out too uncoordinated. “Think it did when all of this,” he wobbled a finger close to his face, “happened. I’m telling you, it was mocking me. Did you see anything? I’ve no idea when that happened,” Crowley took another swig from his glass.

Aziraphale shifted in his armchair and looked anywhere but in Crowley’s face. “No, dear, I didn’t,” he said and used the opportunity to tell him about Gabriel’s antics when he came down to Earth last week.

Aziraphale might not have sworn a lot, or at least not expansively since it hasn’t been expected from someone as well-mannered as he was, but he reckoned that right now he had every right to think that he was totally and utterly fucked.

Making an orchid bloom was one thing. Messing with Crowley’s appearance, even unknowingly, was another, and Crowley would be in the right if he refused to accept any apologies for that. He would be right, but Aziraphale would be devastated knowing that he blew up all the chances he could have had with Crowley in a slightly different status he hoped the demon was going to propose in a near future.

Still, there was a chance that this wasn’t connected.

Agnes Nutter’s prophecies may have not been around anymore, but her descendants were.

Well, one descendant in particular.

Aziraphale might’ve been an angel and might have thought himself intelligent, but the truth had to be faced when the matter didn’t concern just him, so the day after his and Crowley’s last meeting, he waited until noon precisely and dialled Anathema’s number.

Unlike him, Anathema surely didn’t spend last night doing fruitless research with outdated books on folklore and witchcraft, taking hour-long breaks to plan her apology to Crowley and what she was going to do when he would say that she’d taken it too far this time, all while convincing herself that this was a coincidence and trying to go to sleep (which she didn’t). In fact, she was quite disgruntled that the call woke her up at that hour until she realised it was from Aziraphale.

Anathema seemed to prefer facing the truth too, so the first thing she asked him coherently was, “Is this about Crowley?”

Aziraphale didn’t have anything better to respond with than, “How do you know?” that he couldn’t stop leaving his mouth.

“He came by a couple of weeks ago,” Anathema told him as if it was a well-known fact, and after a pause that followed from Aziraphale and realising that, apparently, it isn’t, she added, “Didn’t he tell you?”

Aziraphale pretended to think that he never bothered as much as he did when it came to his best friend. “No,” he said, and hoped that he didn’t sound indignant while trying to mute out petty hurt in the back of his mind.

He could, however, feel Anathema suppress a sigh and roll her eyes on the other end. “Of course he didn’t,” she muttered, “listen, I’ve already told him, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Sorry,” she added apologetically.

Aziraphale only let out a lost “Oh,” not knowing what else to say, but Anathema demanded:

“You didn’t kiss him, did you?”

Aziraphale was snapped out of his brooding in an instant. “What?” He had no time to be embarrassed that his voice suddenly became high-pitched, but he tried to tame it anyway. “Goodness, no! Who—“

“Yes, yes,” Anathema exasperatedly interrupted his babbling, “not my business, I know, I’m just trying to help.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath, finding the line of thought to remind himself of the purpose of this call. Anathema waited for him silently.

“What does this have to do with anything?” He feigned complete disinterest to what she had to say next.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know either,” she chastised tiredly, “seriously, are you really as old as you said to be?”

 _Either?_ He almost asked, but instead said, “Know what?”

“The angel kisses!” Anathema finally lost it. “People say this is what freckles are. Seriously,” she mumbled the last word to the side.

Aziraphale contemplated not saying a word more, but bless it, he’s been so miserable in the past 24 or so hours he had to tell someone, and Crowley was clearly not an option.

“I might have —“ he almost squeaked, “but not him. Not exactly. There’s a plant in his flat, and he talks to them all the time, and I thought why not since they are so frightened all the time— and he said it bloomed the day this happened to him,” he finished lamely.

The silence on the line his speech was met with lasted for several long, long moments. “So you are telling me,” Anathema inquired carefully, “that Crowley talks to his plants?”

Since yesterday, that has been the second instance when Aziraphale wanted to curse. “This isn’t the matter, dear,” he willed himself to press gently (he hoped), “but I do believe it is connected.”

“What, like they are sentient?” She scoffed, “is this why he’s talking to them?”

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale felt himself on the verge of panicking. Not like he hasn’t been there prior, but right now he felt especially present. “I was hoping you would know the mechanisms of it, isn’t this how talismans work?”

“No, it isn’t,” she cut his babbling and added, “Do you want to know if you’re responsible for what happened? I think you are, so just tell him already. He probably knows more about his plants than we do.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Anathema replied and waited before deciding to hang up.

“Dear?” Aziraphale said hurriedly, and she was listening again, “can I just ask you not to tell Crowley about this call? _Especially_ not about the plants.”

Apparently, his last words weren’t as convincing as he wanted them to be, because he could tell that Anathema was grinning.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I only told you about Crowley being at mine because he didn’t ask me not to tell, but your secrets are safe.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale breathed in relief, “well, thank you.”

They bid each other goodbye. Aziraphale hung the phone and stared unseeingly in front of himself.

Surely this could be just some local folklore tale, right? Something that only Anathema would know.

Maybe his computer was practically ancient compared to the modern technology, and maybe he never knew the horror of separating a tangle of wires, one of which should’ve definitely been responsible for the Internet connection, but with a little bit of his imagination it was enough to find out that Anathema’s allegation was, in fact, a worldwide centuries-old assumption.

It just happened that he’d never heard of it before.

It still didn’t make this any easier to approach, but he could, indeed, _just tell him already_.

But only one thing.

It was stupid to have any reaction to Aziraphale inviting him over and saying, “I’d just like some company, that’s all”, but Crowley did anyway.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale wasn’t happy – no, _glad_ – to see him every time he showed up at the bookshop unannounced, but it was different from being asked over for tea since it rarely happened.

Still, Crowley had appearances to keep, so he tried not to grin on his way to the bakery, while he was buying a large selection of macaroons and pastries, and on his way to Aziraphale’s.

Well, maybe he almost failed when he saw the angel. Almost.

Aziraphale invited him to the backroom and after fussing with the china and tea and the treats Crowley brought over he finally settled in the armchair on the opposite side. His mind was clearly somewhere else, but he insisted on being fine when asked, and Crowley decided not to push it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said suddenly in agitation half a minute later, “I have to tell you something,” and left his seat after a slight hesitation.

Crowley carefully placed the teapot he barely lifted off the table back. There was no way he would have anything in his hands in a moment like this.

Aziraphale took a couple of nervous steps behind his armchair, his gaze still not present, and Crowley was not so sure anymore that the angel was going to tell him what he expected, and before he could ask what it was then, Aziraphale sighed and turned to him.

“I’m very sorry,” he said in a gravely tone, “I’m the one to blame for what happened to your face.”

Crowley took a couple of seconds to process the fact that this didn’t fit any scenario he’d come up in his head with some moments ago, and then unconsciously touched his face because, if he’d been honest, he genuinely forgot about the incident aftermath in the past couple of days.

He gaped at Aziraphale, not understanding how that was possible.

“When you were away that day,“ he sighed once more before continuing desperately, “I kissed the orchid in your living room, and I’m convinced now that my— Such _actions_ on my behalf can cause skin conditions like yours because of my nature, and I figured your plants are somewhat sentient, so maybe this is why it happened that way.”

Aziraphale finished his speech quieter than when he started it and fell silent, lowering his eyes to somewhere at Crowley’s right.

“I’m really sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale said, soft and quiet, “but please let me fix this.”

Crowley’s mind came back to his body.

“Oh, angel,” he stood up and rubbed his face with his hands, “no. You aren’t fixing anything.”

He wasn’t planning on saying _why_ and _how_ and what happened the last time he tried to do this himself, but he didn’t have anything else to say to Aziraphale without revealing himself, so the awkward pause found its way between them.

“But—“ Aziraphale let out in confusion, “I must—“

“I don’t mind them,” Crowley half-mumbled half-said, secretly hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t pay attention to it but that it would be enough to shut him up.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked, clearly hearing it the first time but demanding a repetition just to be sure.

“I said I don’t mind,” Crowley said louder, “it’s already there, so you can just drop it.”

“I should not,” Aziraphale said suddenly surprisingly sternly. “It _was_ my fault—“

“So what?”

Aziraphale snapped his head, his wide eyes meeting Crowley’s who was just as startled by his own words as the angel, but there was no way back. He could tell him now, for better or worse, and it wasn’t as if he had any other way out of this conversation without getting irritated.

“I don’t know what happened either,” Crowley filled in the awkward pause while Aziraphale was clearly searching for words, “but you don’t have to do anything, because I’d rather keep them.”

He thought for a moment and, before it got too late, added, “Because they’re from you.”

For a moment, Crowley thought he made his point way too clear than Aziraphale could handle, but then the angel asked, “Why?” and it all fell in its right place.

It was hard and ridiculous and scary, and maybe not all the time, but right now Crowley was a coward, so he blurted out, “For the same reason you go around kissing my things, apparently.”

Aziraphale looked like he was finally back to Earth. “Well,” he shifted, his expression still confused, but a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, then.”

“Come on, Aziraphale, you aren’t that dense,” Crowley said and damn it, he ended up getting irritated, but he was having none of it. He took a couple of steps toward the angel, who didn’t step back, so at least that was good.

“What I meant to say was,” Crowley thought for a moment and took another step forward, so he could reach the back of Aziraphale’s hand, “I don’t mind that they’re here, and I don’t mind if they stay or if there’s more because you— eh, because you’d do the thing. That you did. But to me. And if you would, I wouldn’t mind the reason too.”

Aziraphale was staring down to where Crowley’s fingers hovered around his, barely touching, and Crowley was both anticipating and dreading the angel’s answer. The only sound in the remaining distance between them audible enough for Crowley was his own heavy heartbeat and ragged breathing he desperately tried to calm down.

“Are you positive,” Aziraphale said after some time, moving his hand and sliding his fingers into Crowley’s palm, “that you wouldn’t mind if there were more?”

Crowley thought he skipped a heartbeat and sighed. “Yes,” he said thinly.

Aziraphale angled his head to look him in the eyes, and they were, suddenly, too close for any plausible deniability left.

“May I kiss you then?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley chuckled and averted his eyes in a way that could be described as shy if he wasn’t himself.

“Do you think there will be more?” He looked at Aziraphale again and saw his smile returned.

Aziraphale slightly shook his head. “We shall see,” he said, and then his hand that ended up on the side of Crowley’s face at some uncertain moment gently guided his face closer to Aziraphale’s until their lips were pressed together.

Crowley held back a soft sound, just as this kiss, but sighed and tried to keep his other hand from slipping off Aziraphale’s waist and to pull him closer.

“Any new ones?” Crowley asked timidly when they broke apart.

Aziraphale let out a distracted hum before kissing him high on the cheek and then lower, down to his jaw. “No,” he shook his head after withdrawing to look at the demon again, “but I think the ones you already have are here to stay.”

Before kissing him again, Crowley decided that he _really_ didn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> That was a thing.  
> [Tumblr](https://polkanote.tumblr.com/)


End file.
